


Positive Attention

by Writer_Darkling



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Study, Depression, Everyone has good intentions but you know what they say about the road to hell, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Not canon compliant after Avengers 1, POV: Tony Stark, Prompt Fic, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Some Humor, Team Dynamics, Team-building is hard, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_Darkling/pseuds/Writer_Darkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's abrasiveness ruffles feathers; he knows this. But the other Avengers still only seem to treat him well when he's been hurt in the line of duty. If bleeding is all he needs to do, what's another injury, really? Too bad that comes across as his being a reckless liability.</p><p>"Was this what family actually meant?  </p><p>"With his good hand, he clutched his broken arm to his chest like it was something precious.  Maybe this was the heart-proof they needed.  Maybe that was what he had been doing wrong up until now.  More than likely it was only a piece; systems as complex as human relationships always relied on multiple factors.  If through nothing else, he'd learned that while building Jarvis.  Trial and error had taught him that.  But even so, sometimes, after a certain level of complexity, a butterfly can flutter its wings in a distant country and touch everything.  Change everything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for this Avengerkink prompt: http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/8247.html?thread=17175095#t17175095 Cross-posted to lj as anon fill.

“Oh, come on!” Tony said into the comm, twisting in mid-air to avoid another shot from the Doombot army marching through the streets of Manhattan – well, the Doombots were pretty decimated at this point, so it wasn't much of an army anymore. “That wasn't even my fault! You're blaming me for that, really? You do know I basically subsist on coffee, right? Well, coffee and alcohol, really, and sometimes those health shakes, but whatever. My point stands.”

“It so was your fault,” Clint retorted. “That was the last of Thor's precious lefse. Now look at him.”

Tony would really rather not look at Thor right now, thanks. The Asgardian was doing a terrific impression of the Hulk, and it was intimidating. Like, Natasha-level intimidating. Thor had done most of the smashing on this mission. 

“You can't expect me to remember everything I eat when I'm sleep-deprived! And anyway, I mean, come on, Jarvis does the shopping around here; he's the one who keeps track of that sort of thing. If you should blame anybody—”

“Sir,” the AI cut in smoothly, “given the number of necessary protocols I am currently running in your suit, I would advise against finishing that sentence.”

Clint gave a low whistle. “Ooh, burn, Stark. I'd be careful, if I were you. Wouldn't want to piss off your robot butler.”

Tony aimed a few, casual repulsor blasts down at the remaining Doombots. “Okay, fine,” he grumbled half-heartedly. “I get the picture. Let's all just blame Tony. That's fine. Never mind the temperamental Asgardian, no, not even the giant green rage monster _that keeps destroying every TV in the penthouse,_ God knows why, I mean, Bruce, man, come on, what is up with that?” he complained even though he knew Bruce couldn't hear. For fairly obvious reasons, the Hulk didn't have a communicator. Neither did the God of Thunder and Destroyer of Electrical Appliances. “Don't you two like my TVs? I'm feeling unappreciated here. With everything I do for you, and this is how you and the Big Guy repay me? Seriously, just because I can afford to replace them more or less infinitely doesn't mean that the annoyance and inconvenience, not to mention the sheer amount of time involved—”

“Stark,” Steve interrupted, “cut the chatter.”

“What?! Why only me?”

“Because,” Natasha said, “only you can manage to keep talking without ever actually saying anything.”

“You know you love me. Don't deny it.”

“No, Stark. I really don't.”

Tony banked around a skyscraper and came in for a landing beside Natasha and Steve, dropping to one knee on the street in front of the four still-functioning 'bots and the scattered, metallic remains of at least two dozen more. A quick repulsor blast for each, and the Doombots were down, twitching erratically while sparks flew. Then he stood, turned to Natasha and put a hand over his heart, saying with only somewhat feigned hurt in his voice, “You wound me. Really. One of Clint's Cupid arrows couldn't fix the despair your hurtful comments caused.”

Natasha just raised an eyebrow at him. 

A twang of a bowstring came loud and clear over the comm. “Cupid arrows?” Clint demanded. “I'll show you Cupid arrows, Stark.”

Steve dropped his shield to his side and straightened up. His mouth twisted in annoyance at Tony's smug destruction of Doombots that Steve needed zero help with, but he didn't call Tony on it. Tony was disappointed that his actions didn't merit any yelling, but he was still glad he didn't have to hear a lecture. Sometimes his mind didn't make sense to him, either.

“Hawkeye,” Steve asked, “How are Thor and the Hulk? Do we have an all-clear?” 

From his sniper vantage point, Clint grumbled, “They're taking out the last couple of Doombot squadrons a few streets down. So other than those two having a smashin' good time? Yeah, all clear.”

“Great,” Tony breathed with relief, removing his helmet and tucking it under an arm. He ran a gauntleted hand through his sweaty hair. “It's freaking hot in this thing in the summer,” he told Natasha for no reason at all. “I really have to figure out how to air condition it or something, this is ridiculous. You have no idea. There is sweat in places that –”

A mechanical whine cut him off. He turned to look and felt his eyes widen. One of the downed Doombots had managed to prop itself partially upright, jerking one of those gun-arms up to aim at Natasha's back. The whine squeezed itself higher in pitch as the gun charged, electric light growing at the end of the barrel. A point-blank blast from one of those would rip a hole in her stomach big enough to fit a fist through. Tony heard Steve start to yell from behind him, but he was too far away to be useful, super serum be damned. Natasha's expression began to shift into alarm in reaction to whatever was on their faces. She started to spin her knife back into her hand, but she was going to be too slow. Both of them had noticed too late. They were going to be too slow.

Tony didn't even think about it. A repulsor blast would take longer to aim and fire than he had. His feet were already moving, and he was armored; she wasn't. He felt his fingers close around her left arm and start to yank her out of the way. He began to spin on a heel as she stumbled past him, putting his armored back to the 'bot. The electric whine soared higher and higher until it was painful, and the blue-white light from the gun flared, bright enough to cast shadows on Natasha's startled face. 

The blast knocked him forward and he twisted a quarter turn, just far enough to avoid slamming into her shoulder with all the force of unforgiving gold-titanium. Letting go of her wrist at the last second, he didn't have enough time to brace his fall. He hit the concrete shoulder-first, his head slamming forward bare milliseconds later even though he tried to tighten his neck to prevent it. He felt the unmistakeable pop of his nose breaking, and then his forehead struck, and he didn't know anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

When Tony opened his eyes, he realized several things right away: 1) the bright light was not pleasant, 2) he was in a very white hospital room, and 3) someone was holding his hand. 

“Oh,” he rasped to the blurry face beside him, propped on a fist. “Hi.” And then he gave a goofy smile, but it felt weird, like the muscles in his face didn't quite work right. 

The face jerked toward him, calling, “He's awake!” There was a flurry of noise, then a lot more faces were hovering above him. 

“Hi, guys,” he murmured again, squinting up. Now that he thought about it, he was only looking at them with one eye, his worse one. Did someone take out his contacts? The thought made him frown. They shouldn't do that. “Yer all blurrrry,” he slurred. That was when he realized that he must be on the good drugs, because he didn't even ask for his contacts back, and those were important. 

“How are you feeling?” one of the faces asked. The hand around his squeezed gently.

“M'kay.” He smacked his lips. He must have blinked a little too long, because there was a straw in a cup of water held ready for him before he could ask. He slurped a little, then blinked bemusedly up at them all. Then his blinks got longer and longer and finally the last time he looked up, all he saw was the white ceiling, and the faces had retreated.

\-----

Tony shifted on the hospital bed, wincing against the ache in his back and head. “Come on, I can't eat that,” he groaned to Bruce, who stood beside him holding a tray. “Ugh, that's not even food. I don't know what it is – twenty-year-old plastic, maybe – but it's so far from edible it's not even funny. I want a cheeseburger. Can I have a cheeseburger?”

Bruce sighed and rolled his eyes. He placed the tray on the little table that rolled to fit around the bed, but left the table beside the IV stand. “Do you really want a cheeseburger?”

“Yes,” Tony demanded. “I want some real food. Can't a laid-up superhero get some respect around here? I mean everything I say. Okay, no, not everything, your face tells me you definitely don't agree, and you're right, but I mean what I'm saying now. Cheeseburger.”

“Do you even think you'll be able to chew without...” Bruce gestured at his own face. 

Tony rolled his eyes – well, eye. His left was swollen shut. “Yes, yes, I'm quite the sight, but I so don't care right now.” He broke out the puppy eyes. “Please, Bruce?”

Bruce quirked a smile and nodded. “Okay, Tony, I'll go get you a cheeseburger.” He turned to go, pausing at the door to scold, “Don't go anywhere. I mean it, Tony. No signing yourself out AMA while I'm gone, okay?”

“Sure thing, Bruce.” Then at Bruce's doubtful look, he added, “No, really, would I leave just when I'm finally going to get some decent chow hand-delivered by my bestest science buddy? I don't think so.” 

When he finally left, Bruce had that mixture of fond exasperation on his face that was becoming more and more familiar to Tony. The door swung shut, and he was alone for the first time in days. He sighed and settled back against the pillows. 

A helpless little smile spread across his face. He'd never felt anything quite like this. All of the other Avengers had been... well, they'd been nice to him. No one had snapped at him, no matter how bitchy he got – not even when he'd first seen his face in the mirror, and believe you him, the bruising and swelling were almost unbelievable. Half of his face was purple. He had a brace on his nose, an enormous black eye, and scrapes all over his cheek and forehead. Bit of a concussion, too, of course, plus some whiplash to make it interesting. He didn't even want to talk about the ache in his mid-back. Two ribs were fractured, right near his spine, and he just knew he'd be hobbling around like an old man while it healed. 

But no matter how much he complained, they all looked at him with that same expression of fond exasperation, like they were actually _grateful_ to hear him jabber on and to watch him fidget with cabin fever. The last time anyone really tolerated him like that was right after he returned from Afghanistan.

The way Steve's gaze lingered a little too long, like he was worried he might not have been able to do that ever again, _was_ slightly creepy, though. Thor had actually apologized about the lefse incident with tears in his eyes; Tony would never admit that he'd incited it all on purpose because no one had noticed him in three days. 

Because that just made him sound childish. 

The one part that scared him, though? Natasha had thanked him. She had looked him in the eye and thanked him for saving her life. Clint, standing just behind her shoulder, had looked serious when he nodded in agreement – at least for a moment before he cracked another joke.

As sappy as it made him sound, Tony just... he felt something warm in his chest every time they took his little annoyances in good humor. He couldn't help but poke a little harder, though, every once in a while. Just to test it. Just in case.

The smile dropped off his face and he wrapped a hand around his midsection. He had a sinking feeling it wasn't going to last. If Afghanistan was anything to go by... it wasn't going to last. He wasn't sure which was worse: his head and back throbbing like mad, or reopening the lonely void in his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

“And so I thought I'd just tweak the alignment of some of the plates on the armor,” Tony explained triumphantly. “Good as new.” Finally, it sank in that Bruce's shoulders were frustration-tight. He fell silent and took a tiny step back, wishing suddenly that he hadn't come to bother the other man in his lab. 

“Bruce?” he asked at length.

“Tony,” Bruce gritted out. “As much as I'm glad you're okay, you can't keep doing this.” He finally spun in his chair to face Tony. Well, glare at him, really, which just wasn't fair.

“Keep doing what?” 

“This.” Bruce gestured at the two of them. “Charging in here without any warning, waking me up in the middle of the night to explain your latest brilliant insight, taking over my experiments, poking me with sharp things....”

Tony plastered his media mask over the crestfallen expression that wanted to wash over him. This must be the edge, then. This must be when all the warmth he'd gotten from his team ran out like water through a crack in an old, clay pot. Was he really that useless? Or was it just that the only time he was worth noticing was when he took a bullet meant for someone else?

“I just,” Bruce continued, “I can't... Look, I've been trying to cut you some slack because I know you're still in pain, but Tony, enough is enough, all right?”

Tony gave into the urge to crack a joke and hopefully diffuse the situation. Charm and humor had come in handy before. So he scuffed his shoe against the floor and looked coy. “But Bruce,” he murmured, fluttering the long lashes some of his dates had been jealous of, “I just can't stay away from your beautiful mind.” He leered, looking the other man up and down. “And beautiful... other things.”

Bruce drew a hand over his face, his tired voice on edge. “Tony... Just no.”

“I mean, I'm not exactly GQ-worthy lately, I realize that,” Tony babbled a bit desperately, gesturing at the yellowing bruises on his face. “I look like I lost a fight with concrete, which, you know, I did, so that would only make sense. But still, hurts a guy's feelings to get an outright rejection like that, sheesh. Might make me think I've lost my touch.”

_“Tony.”_

He recognized that tone, that mixture of exhaustion and frustration that screamed all patience had been used up. He knew it well, but he just couldn't stop himself from hoping humor would work or from stress-testing just one more time even though it made the opposite of sense. “Yeeesss?” he drawled with a slight smirk.

“Do you really need me to spell it out for you? Fine, Tony, you're making it extremely difficult to keep a lid on the Other Guy. There, are you happy? I've admitted it. I've acknowledged it. You're not scared of me or the Other Guy, fine, that's great. I'm glad for you, honestly. But it's not safe, not for you or for anyone else here to keep doing this....”

Tony's faint shame and sadness suddenly flared into anger. Fine. This was the edge? That was just fine. He'd faced this before with Howard, with his mother, even Rhodey and Pepper. He was no stranger to being forced to get any kind of attention any way he could—being outrageous and reckless was expected from Tony Stark. He'd thought there for a moment that maybe... but no. He had been wrong. 

“—going to have to ask you to stop it, Tony,” Bruce finished.

“No, of course.” Tony waved it away. “You should have said something earlier, Big Guy. It's not good for you to bottle up this sort of thing, you know. Gives you ulcers or whatever. And anyway, I can take it. I'm a big boy. I'll talk to you later?” And he limped away without waiting for an answer, holding his aching back as straight as he could, and hiding his trembling hands in his pockets.

\-----

Tony couldn't help but flinch at the glare Natasha threw at him as he wandered into the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway, propped his good shoulder against the jamb, and sighed. He was almost not surprised, but only almost. It would have hurt less if he wasn't surprised at all. “What did I do now?” He'd have been concerned about what asking that question said about him, if only he didn't think he was the only one to notice.

“Where is all the silverware?” she demanded.

Comprehension dawned on his face. “Oh. I, uh, borrowed it for an experiment.” He'd needed real silver in a pinch and melted it down, but he could get an identical set.

“You borrowed it,” she repeated flatly.

He swallowed and gave her a weak smile. “Yes?” He coughed into a fist. “But uh, I can't give it back right now. Sorry.”

When her predatory glare only deepened, he decided that he really didn't need lunch after all and retreated back to his lab.

\-----

“ _One month,_ Tony!” Steve cried. “It's been barely a month since the Doombots. You weren't even fully healed! You shouldn't have been on the field. Can't you keep yourself out of the hospital longer than that?”

Tony scowled up at the super soldier, painstakingly tugging his jeans on underneath the papery gown. His balance was absolutely not wavering, no sir. He certainly didn't need to stay at the hospital any longer – not if Steve was going to jump down his throat. “So what?” he snapped. “Suddenly I'm not supposed to have my teammates' backs?”

Steve's expression twisted. “That's not what I meant. Tony –” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You're important, too.” He met Tony's gaze head-on, his eyes earnest. “We can't lose you, either.”

That little bloom of heat that he'd been missing lit up his insides. The relief—the falling away of doubt that it all might have been a one-time fluke—almost made his shaky knees buckle. He didn't let it show. Instead, he turned his face away and started trying to untie his gown with one hand, his other arm cradled in a sling. A frustrated huff escaped him while he grappled with it. Fingers landed on his, making him jump and glance back.

“Let me help,” Steve murmured, “since you seem bound and determined to check yourself out anyway.”

“Damn right I am.” He dropped his hand with a sigh. Steve picked apart the knot and helped ease the gown off the cast that encased Tony's right arm from hand to armpit. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Anytime, Tony. Although I'd still prefer if you would stay here until the doctor says you can go.”

He sighed, “I know.” He'd actually followed doctor's orders last time, but it seemed like this injury/friendliness correlation got diminishing returns – just a little bit less each go around. But he couldn't judge that on a sample size of two instances; it wouldn't be statistically significant. He wasn't even sure yet whether the apparent correlation was, in fact, a correlation. It might be nothing. It might be everything. He needed more test cases.


	4. Chapter 4

“Cheers!” Tony cried, clinking his glass against Thor's. Thor let out some Asgardian battle cry or maybe just the equivalent to “cheers” in response. Tony decided it sounded like agreement, so he drained his glass and slammed it upside-down on the counter of his bar. Thor knocked his back, too, then shattered his glass against the ground, calling, “Another!”

“Yeah!” Tony perked up at that. He shoved to his feet, caught himself against the bar when he almost tipped over – God, his arm would be an aching mess if he'd done that sober, but he wasn't, so it was all good – and circled around to the other side to mix more drinks. Damn, he should have taken one of the stools with him. That was the only reason he'd been on the side farther away from all the alcohol, anyway. “There ya go,” he said at length, sliding over a full glass for Thor. “'S good – I think. Well, whatever. Dunno whazzit called.”

“I'm certain any drink mixed by the mighty Tony Stark will be delicious!” the demi-god declared, taking a swig of what looked like pond sludge. Thor smacked his lips, cocked his head, then smiled. “It is indeed wonderful!”

Tony smiled back, wavering on his feet. He was proud of himself; he'd managed to mix drinks all night with only one good hand. “Oh, yeah.” He nodded to himself. “'M awesome. God, 'm sloshed. 'S increb- I mean, incredible. I think. Wha' was I talkin' 'bout again?” 

Thor blinked and set his glass down while Tony wasn't looking. Or at least, he must have, because after Tony gulped down his own drink, there Thor's mug sat. It still looked remarkably full. “Hey! Thought ya were gonna drink.” He pointed, more or less, at the offensive thing. 

Thor glanced at it then away. He opened his mouth to say something, but Tony cut him off.

“Hey, wazzat a... a grimace? Thought ya liked it. Said was 'delishish.' -Ish. Uh... 'delicious?' Yeah.” He thought about that for a moment, then decided, yes, he remembered that right. He said it again to make sure. “Delicious,” he declared with a nod.

Then he looked up and found out Steve was standing behind Thor. “Oh, hey, Cap,” he greeted with a wide smile. “How long ya been 'ere? Why th' long face?” For some reason, that was absolutely hysterical and he started to giggle, hard enough that he bent double until he was barely standing and his forehead was braced against the counter. His shoulders still shook faintly while he laughed into the granite.

Thor and Steve were talking somewhere in the background. Boy, Steve sounded pissed. Painkillers and alcohol, baby. “Tha's where 's at, kiddies,” Tony muttered and cracked up. He slid down the cupboard front onto his knees while he laughed. A hand gripped his good shoulder – the one that actually used to be his bad shoulder. It was his right arm that was all beat up now, so Steve was grabbing the left, for those of you who weren't paying attention. Well, maybe. Was it bad that he couldn't remember right from left? He didn't know, so he asked Steve. 

Steve just sighed. “Come on, Tony. Up you get.” And then Tony was on his feet with two muscled blondes on either side of him, holding him upright. 

“Oh, well,” Tony murmured, “if ya insist.” 

“Two-person carry?” Steve asked Thor. “It would be easier on Tony.” 

“It would?” Tony asked. But he didn't get an answer in words. Instead, he found himself off his feet again, but cradled in a sitting position with their arms locked together behind his back and underneath his thighs.

Tony yelped and latched onto the closest handhold, which happened to be Thor's hair. The guy didn't even flinch. Tony stared at him, then frowned. “Yer not even tipsy, er you?” he asked.

Thor looked abashed, but shook his head no. “Oh well,” Tony muttered over whatever Thor was saying. “Won' remember this tam'rrow anyway.” And then he passed out.

He came to a little when he felt himself being tucked into bed. He cracked his eyes open and just made out two silhouettes walking toward the rectangle of light from the open door. 

“I haven't heard him laugh like that in a long time,” Steve was whispering.

“Nor I,” Thor agreed quietly. “That was the reason I chose to join in when I came upon him drinking rather than to admonish him. I deemed the additional risk to his health to be minimal and the potential emotional benefit to be high.”

“I can understand that,” Steve said, at the threshold now. “I'm sorry I yelled at you. It was rash, and you know....” His voice faded as he drew the door closed. 

Tony smiled and burrowed himself into his pillow. He really hoped he would remember this in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

About a week later, Tony found his work on the armor being interrupted while it was only mid-afternoon, still a far cry from a two- or three-day engineering binge. A little flare of worry spiked in him.

“What? Are we assembling?” Tony asked on automatic as Steve tugged him away from his workbench with a hand around his good wrist. Steve, wearing a mischievous smile, shook his head, so Tony sighed a little in relief and decided to play along. He was already a step and a half away from the table before he remembered the tool in his hand; he just barely managed to toss it into his right hand, reach back, and drop the nut driver on the bench instead of the floor. “Steve, what is it?”

“You'll see.” 

Tony scowled and grumbled even as Steve dragged him out of his workshop and into the elevator. Well, to be fair, the grip around Tony's wrist was loose enough he could tug away if he wanted to. You'd know if a super-soldier demanded that you go along with him, but Steve didn't abuse his greater physical strength that way. He was polite like that.

“Steve,” he stated flatly. “If you are dragging me to a doctor for a check-up or something – which would just be cruel and unusual because I could swear Pepper coerced me into doing that a week ago – then I will hurt you. Somehow. Come on, Cap, at least give me a hint!” He stomped his foot like a little kid.

Steve laughed but didn't answer with anything more than a smile. 

Tony opened his mouth to rant some more, but the elevator glided to a halt and opened onto the main living floor for the Avengers. He shut his jaw with a click when he saw all the others were standing there, waiting. They stepped inside, crowding Steve and him against the back wall.

Tony greeted, “Hey, guys. What's going on?” No one answered. He frowned at them and peered closer. Not even Thor's expression told him anything other than that the demi-god was in a playful mood.

Even in street clothes, they all at least looked decent. Less scruffy than he did, at least. So what if he had grease on his face and all down his arms? He shouldn't be expected to fancy-dance in his own penthouse with feathers and bells tied all over his outfit. Tony decided that if they didn't care he looked like a mad scientist, then he didn't either.

He pestered them the whole ride down, but no one said a word in response. Silence would have felt oppressive, so his mouth ran away with him even more than usual, but his chatter was all empty air. He felt kinda left out, to be honest. If there was one thing he hated, it was to be ignored. They were all still smirking at him with a twinkling secret in their eyes, so maybe it was okay. This was just a surprise. He _wanted_ to believe it was a surprise.

When they reached the lobby, the other Avengers maneuvered him into the middle of the group and jostled him out of the elevator. Steve still hadn't let go of him, like he thought Tony would bolt if he did. Tony thought it was all a bit extreme, as well as somewhat embarrassing, to be escorted through his own lobby like that. With an Avenger in front, behind, and to each side of him, it felt like a cross between being guarded and being herded.

Happy waited at the curb, leaning against a parked limousine from Tony's fleet. “Boss,” the man greeted with a grin, pushing off the car to hold open the door. Clint, walking point, climbed in first, then turned around in his seat to watch Tony with an expectant expression. He held out his hand to help him in, like Tony was some damsel climbing into a rickety coach.

Tony couldn't help but feel relieved when someone finally spoke, even if it was just Clint teasing, “C'mon, Cinderella. Climb into your pumpkin carriage.” The archer waggled his fingers. “Thy chariot awaits!”

Tony ignored him – turnabout is fair play, after all – and drifted to a halt in front of his driver. He tsked at the man. “You, too, Happy? I can't believe all of you are ganging up on me. What is this?” He laid a hand over his heart. “Should I be worried? Is the world coming to an end? Again? Or have you all just simultaneously recognized the greatness that is Tony Stark and want to –”

Pepper's voice, floating out from the limo's dark interior, cut him off. “Tony, just get in.”

“Pepper?” He blinked. This must really be a big deal if she was in on it. He wondered if maybe Rhodey would show up, just to make it that much more surreal; the man was stationed overseas. But Tony, standing here in front of the open door, found there was only one choice. “Fine, fine, I'm going.” He batted Clint's hand out of the way. “Stop it, Legolas. I'm not some delicate flower or something. Out the way. Scooch.” 

Clint scooted. Tony edged into the limo, careful of his broken arm and the two fractured ribs in his back that hadn't yet reached the six-week mark. The others waited patiently for him to get situated and out of the way, then piled in. Clint ended up on his right and Bruce on his left, right next to the door. Steve sat down next to Pepper, who looked a little strange but just as gorgeous as ever in her blue jeans, while Thor eased in next to Natasha. There was still plenty of seating between them and the front of the car, which left Happy stranded off by himself, but Tony didn't complain that they were all so close. It was kinda nice. 

“Hey, Happy!” he called. “Throw on some music!” There. Now he didn't need to fill an awkward silence with chatter.

While Tony waited through the inevitable traffic, he jiggled his knee. He would have folded his arms, too, but that was rather awkward when one was in a sling. Yes, he was actually wearing the sling. When a cast forced your arm to stay at a ninety degree angle, it was pretty much the only comfortable option. Plus, he was sort of trying not to smear engine grease all over. Pepper dug out and handed him a napkin after a while, and he got most of it off his hands and arms. Arm, really. The cast was pretty much a lost cause, as was his shirt.

After what felt like an eternity, Happy finally parked. Bruce stepped out, and Tony peered through the open door. “Is that a park?”

Bruce laughed and reached back in to tug gently at his forearm. “Yeah, Tony, it's a park.”

Tony asked as he let himself be pulled out, “Why are we at a park? Guys, the suspense is killing me. Really. I have no idea what is going on.”

“Good!” Clint exclaimed. “You're not supposed to yet.”

Tony stood there on the grass, head cocked at the park spread out before him, only peripherally aware that everyone was filing out of the car behind him. This whole thing just did not compute.

“Come on, Tony,” Bruce murmured. “We have the spot all picked out.” He spoke to the others over Tony's shoulder, saying, “We're going on ahead, okay?”

“Wondrous!” Thor cried, so excited he just couldn't contain himself any longer. “Let us go immediately!” And he bounded past them, strangely regal yet puppy-like at the same time.

Tony drifted after him on Bruce's prompting. He vaguely registered something about the others following soon, but he wasn't listening. The park was beautiful, with its giant, rustling trees and fresh breeze, or at least as fresh as it got in New York, which was surprisingly so, apparently. The two of them strode down a footpath, passing in and out of dappled shadows. Almost no other people were out and about, which was strange given the warm day, but he was glad not to be bothered by reporters or fans for once. 

“There,” murmured Bruce, leaning in and pointing down the hill at Thor. The demi-god waved, delighted with his copse of trees and firepit. As they drew closer, Tony even heard trickling water, but he wouldn't put it past them to have a stereo hidden somewhere, because that was just too much, seriously. No way that could be a real fountain. This place was already a gem, and nowhere in New York did a gem go unclaimed or unnoticed. Maybe Loki had doused him with a hallucination spell or LSD. Something. 

When the two of them reached the ring of packed dirt around the firepit, Thor swept up to them and carried Tony away from Bruce, plunking him down on an upturned log and beaming at him. Bruce found a similar seat nearby for himself. The stragglers crested the top of the hill and hurried down to meet them. 

Tony stared at what Nat and Pepper were carrying. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked them as they set down their burden at his feet.

“That depends, Tony,” Pepper said. “Unless you think it's a picnic basket, in which case you'd be right.”

Tony almost laughed. For a moment, that was practically a let-down. Then he thought about it. He frowned at her, then at the basket, then at her. She was serious. They had all brought him here just to have a picnic. Pepper, the woman who fought tooth and nail to get him to go to meetings on time and work on R&D instead of a pet project, had helped to yank him away from work just for this silly little thing. It was the opposite of anything he'd come to expect, and it knocked the breath out of him.

He couldn't blink. He was looking at Pepper, and he just couldn't blink. He stared from one to the other of them: Pepper, Clint, Steve, Happy, Tasha, Thor, Bruce. And he fought back tears. He felt stupid for being moved that much, but there the traitorous tears were. Quickly, he dropped his watery gaze to his lap. 

Truth poured out of him almost before he realized it was happening. “I've never...,” he whispered, “I've never gone on a picnic before. Not a real one. Not one that meant anything.”

And it might be a small surprise. It might be simple. There might even be ant-ridden sandwiches in those baskets for all he knew. But that didn't matter. These people who meant so much to him had set up a surprise for him, specifically him, Tony “Merchant of Death” Stark, a narcissistic playboy billionaire whose assistant had once felt the need to make a glass display of his reactor that read, “Proof Tony Stark Has a Heart.” If proof was required, that meant the existence of his heart was in question. Yet here they all stood. Iron Man: yes. Tony Stark: not recommended. He was the golden goose. The products of his genius and his hands were wanted, not him. Not the man beyond the IQ points. One father, two father, distant father, scheming father. No father. 

Was this what family actually meant? 

With his good hand, he clutched his broken arm to his chest like it was something precious. Maybe this was the heart-proof they needed. Maybe that was what he had been doing wrong up until now. More than likely it was only a piece; systems as complex as human relationships always relied on multiple factors. If through nothing else, he'd learned that while building Jarvis. Trial and error had taught him that. But even so, sometimes, after a certain level of complexity, a butterfly can flutter its wings in a distant country and touch everything. Change everything.

Tony was struggling to make his face smooth out when a hand landed on his shoulder. He glanced up. Pepper smiled a gentle, knowing smile, and Tony almost lost it. 

Then Nat spoke up, muttering, “Me either. I've never been on a real picnic, either.” Her gaze, when he met it, was as honest as she was capable of giving. 

Thor added, “I, too, have never participated in this Midgardian pastime. It is a first for many of us. That makes it all the more special, I think.”

Tony nodded, forced his shoulders back, and blinked his eyes clear. “Well,” he said, his voice a little thick, “then we should probably dig in, don't you think?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I would die to be your friend.” – Angel Dust's “Fly Away”

Hovering above the deck of the Helicarrier, Tony cut the power to his repulsors. He staggered on impact but managed to keep his feet. With Captain America's gaze on him, Tony slowly straightened up. Fury stood behind Steve and to his right, muscled black arms folded and face unreadable.

Tony knew the armor looked like a mess. The paint job needed a total redo, and he'd probably be spending a week in the shop fixing all the mangled plates. Some would simply need to be replaced. It wasn't actually that bad this time, though. All the electrical was working fine; no sparks or smoke here. The armor had done its job.

Tony flipped the faceplate up and forced a grin. “Hey, guys. How's it hanging?”

“Tony,” Steve snapped, his knuckles white from gripping his shield so tightly. “We need to talk.”

“Sure, Cap. No problem. Just let me check on –”

“Clint's fine.”

Tony had better control than to visibly flinch. “Well, that's good,” he said mildly. “Still, I'd like to go see for myself, then get out of the armor. So if the debrief could wait –”

“This isn't a debrief,” Fury interjected.

“Then what is it?”

Fury glanced pointedly around the busy deck, filled with fighter jets and military types. “Are you sure you want to do this here?”

Tony's heart started beating a little faster. He frowned and cocked his head but figured he'd learn what “this” was soon enough, so all he said was, “ Lead the way, Blackbeard.”

Fury spun on a heel and strode off. Steve gave Tony a complicated expression of sympathy, impatience, and anger before following. Tony took a moment to breathe deep before he headed after them. Fury reached the edge of the tarmac, swept through a door and down the white hall. Tony's boots, when he followed Fury and Steve inside, clanked on the tile, horribly loud with all the hard surfaces to catch and release the sound.

Eventually, the three of them took enough turns, passed several checkpoints, and basically just walked far enough that it finally dawned on Tony: this was the way to Fury's office. Only the most serious of discussions ever took place there. That office was sacrosanct and Tony wasn't usually allowed to enter. _I don't want your eyes reading what they shouldn't, Stark, or your dirty paws taking apart all my tech._

It took forever and no time at all before Tony found himself facing Steve and Fury again, this time from the opposite side of a massive, black wood desk. Fury was just settling himself into his leather chair while Steve hovered to the side of the desk partially between the two of them, but obviously closer to Fury all the same.

Tony remained standing. “So, what is this about that you had to be extra secretive? I know your secrets have secrets and all, but I don't know what –”

“Tony,” Steve interrupted.

He scowled. “Fine, just lay it on me, then. Go on, tell me whatever is so damn important.”

Fury met his gaze before stating solemnly, “You're off the team.”

Tony had to pause a moment. “Repeat that.”

“You're off the team.”

He shook his head to clear his ears. “I'm _what_?”

Fury leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I don't like to do this, Stark, but it's clear I have to. You're a liability, and if there's one thing I don't need, it's an Avenger who can't stop throwing himself into the line of fire or trying to play the hero.”

Tony gaped. “You have got to be fucking shitting me. Steve, tell me this is a joke.”

“It's not a joke, Tony.” Steve's back was stiff as a tree trunk and his mouth a thin, taut line. “It was your actions that landed Clint in the hospital when he tried to stop you from being stupid, and it's... I've had enough. I've tried to talk to you about this, but you just refuse to listen. This is – ”

Tony swiped a hand through the air and cut him off. “Look, I get I fucked up today, okay? I know that. And I'm fucking _sorry_! Getting Clint hurt was the last thing I wanted. But that doesn't mean you have to kick me off the team! That's a tad bit overkill.” He let out a shaky little laugh. “Don't you think? People make mistakes.”

“I realize that, Tony,” Steve snapped. “And I know you wouldn't hurt him on purpose. But I can't just stand here and watch while you try to kill yourself, either!”

Tony's mouth worked but no sound came out. Was that what Steve really thought Tony was trying to do? Tony had finally figured out how to hold onto his relationships. It was finally working.

“Kill myself?” Tony scoffed, disbelieving laughter in his voice “I... what? Seriously?”

And Steve thought he was trying to end everything, just when he might have finally found it all.

The man looked like he half-wished to take his words back. “You're self-destructive, Tony, and it's only gotten worse over the past few months. So yes, I'm serious. And I won't help you do it. If being on the team is making your workload too heavy and pushing you over the edge, then I think it's for the best we take you out of rotation and off the roster.”

Tony glanced from Steve to Fury and back. “And you two never even thought about a suspension or something? Because I will take that before this nonsensical shit.”

“We did,” Fury said. “And we discarded the idea because it won't change anything. I know you, Stark, and I know your type. It's always all or nothing with you. Those are the only terms you will understand.”

Tony was almost glad he didn't get a chance to respond to that because Fury continued smoothly, “Consider your SHIELD privileges and clearance revoked, effective immediately. Anything you've got on the Helicarrier – take it with you when you leave.”

There must have been something painful in his expression, because Fury sighed and added in a gentler tone, “This is not something I enjoy, Stark. Neither of us do. But you've left us no other choice. You brought this on yourself.”

Tony refused to think anymore and shut down into autopilot. He spun on a heel and left, ignoring whatever the two of them might have said as he flipped his faceplate closed and sought out an exit. The little bits and pieces of things he was permanently leaving behind didn't matter at all. He couldn't even bring himself to face Clint, much as the guilt pressed him to. He just needed to leave and right now. There was no way to fix this nor any time machine to stop it from happening in the first place.

When Tony really registered his surroundings again, he was back on the deck, the ocean stretching out in front of him. Readouts flitted across the HUD, giving him stats on the suit and various atmospheric conditions.

“Jarvis?” he asked, wildly afraid for a moment that his AI wouldn't answer.

“Yes, sir?”

He exhaled shakily. “Do we have enough power to get to Malibu?”

“The reactor needs time to recharge the suit capacitor to return to full power. But yes, sir, current levels are just barely sufficient.”

“Good enough. Hit the thrusters.”

Jarvis did.


	7. Chapter 7

Tony puttered around in his garage workshop, bobbing his head slightly to the beat of the pounding music and sucking on his lower lip in concentration. He paused to scrub his tired, watering eyes with the back of one wrist. When he dropped his hand back to the handle of the soldering iron, he saw his skin was covered in grease and realized he probably just smeared it all over his face. Not that it mattered. 

The heavy metal playlist rattling in his ears came to a brief halt and moved onto the next album. The sudden quiet made him look up and glance at the clock on one of his screens. Nine am., it said. He sighed. He'd worked past dawn for the second time in a row. Two or three days awake, contrary to popular belief, was about all the sleep deprivation he could handle. At 36 hours, caffeine became not an option but a necessity. After 48, he'd catch himself stepping out of the bathroom, blinking for a ten-second micronap, and thinking, “I can't remember the last time I went to the bathroom. Maybe I should go do that.” That sort of shit sucked out all his creativity, slowed basic thoughts down to appalling dial-up speeds, and deleted what little common sense he had.

Tony set down the iron, unplugged it, and propped his elbows on the workbench, dropping his face into the cradle made by his thumbs at his jaw and fingers at his temples. His bloodshot eyes, feeling swollen with exhaustion, slipped shut. His stomach was so empty it made him nauseous. 

The minutes spun past while the wreck of the circuit board he'd been working on stared up at him from between his elbows. “Piece o' shit,” he muttered to it. 

Dummy startled when Tony stood. The robot rolled over to Tony, hovering in concern at his elbow and giving a questioning chirp. Tony patted Dummy's claw-arm and kept walking over to the door because he could at least make it up the stairs to sleep. When he stumbled into his bedroom, he managed to drag his grease-stained clothes off and dump them on the floor. He crawled into his bed and collapsed onto his side. Jarvis activated the black-out shades without prompting. Tony was out before they whirred all the way shut.

Some unknown time later, a high-frequency buzz in his ear jerked his eyes open. He knew that sound.

Oh, God, he knew that sound. No one should have access to that technology anymore.

He tugged at his hands where they sprawled out on the sheets. Nothing happened. His entire body was frozen except for his eyes. He rolled them to the side until they hurt, struggling to see over his shoulder at the intruder who had to be there. His back was to the door. He knew better than that, even in his own house. Why hadn't Jarvis activated any alarms? Did they do something to Jarvis?

Someone strode around the end of the bed and slid onto the comforter from the opposite side, stretching out in front of him and propping his head up with an elbow. Tony stared.

It was Steve. It was Steve who, wearing a pleasant, guileless smile, took out earplugs and put away Obie's sonic taser. He reached out and laid a hand over Tony's frozen fingers. “Oh, Tony,” he sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”

Tony's eyes were huge with disbelief. His throat felt thick with anger and helplessness.

“You make this entirely too easy. You know that, right? You've given me access to the Tower, to this house, but most importantly, to this.” Steve tapped the arc reactor in Tony's chest. “'Finest bit of engineering in all the land,' right? You told me that once. And you know what?” Steve's face split with a slow, gentle smile. “It will fetch SHIELD and the Avengers a pretty penny. Then none of us will have to deal with you just for funding. Or your Tower. Or even the Iron Man suit.” Steve's fingers splayed out over the reactor and he patted Tony's chest reassuringly. “We can always get a new Iron Man, unlike the rest of the Avengers. Say, do you think Rhodes would be interested?”

He leaned forward to look directly into Tony's eyes. “I think that would be the perfect way to honor your memory. Don't you? The best friend steps in after Tony Stark sadly passes away, alone in his Malibu house.”

Steve's fingers twisted the arc reactor and lifted it out. Tony gasped and gave an involuntary, full-body jerk. The reactor glowed in Steve's hand, the blue light steady and strong. Tony felt his heart falter and double-time it to catch up. Steve eased off the bed, stood, and handed over the reactor to a man Tony hadn't noticed was there until that moment.

“Thanks,” Fury gritted out, pocketing the device. The two of them then turned to walk away, disappearing out of his line of sight.

Tony bolted upright, his heart galloping. He looked down and scrambled at the neckline of his shirt. There it was. The reactor sat safe and sound in his chest. Tony breathed a sigh of relief and slumped back onto his bed. “Jarvis?”

“Sir?”

“Just checking. Never mind.”

“Very well, sir.”

Tony hadn't had a nightmare about Obie or the reactor in months. There was no mistaking that metaphor, was there?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me trouble. There's a lot of pain here that neither Tony nor I really wanted to touch, and it was difficult to give that sort of subtlety justice.

Tony rolled his eyes. “No, of course everything's fine. I am so fine. More than fine, actually. Have you seen this gorgeous face? Trust me, Pepper, when I say that I am – ” He paused to kiss the tips of his fingers and spread them out like an Italian chef. “ – More than fine.”

From the other side of the video call, she sighed at him. “Tony, don't be ridiculous. You haven't gone to Malibu on a whim in – well, I would say ages, but for you that's maybe a month. And that's – ”

“Pepper!” he exclaimed, scandalized. A mischievous smile quirked his lips. “Since when do I ever do anything on a whim? I mean, really, totally without thinking because – ”

“ – long enough that it raised a flag. So don't think that you can get out of this conversation that easily.”

“ – I'm a genius, you know. I think faster than most people. So just because they wouldn't have had enough time to think about it, doesn't mean that I wouldn't.”

She let a brief silence hang, and her next words were the more serious for it. “Tony, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me what happened.”

Tony leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I don't wanna talk about it, Pep.”

“Tony....” She sighed. “You probably should. If not with me, then with someone. The other Avengers have been calling me, you know, asking about you. I haven't told them where you are, but it's been four days and they're worried.”

Rage flared in his chest. “Are they?” he snarled before he could reel himself in. Then he stopped, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He didn't even try to sound plausible when he muttered, “I've gotta go. Time-sensitive... experiment thing. You know, wouldn't want me to blow myself up accidentally.” And he cut off the video call and thunked his forehead down onto his desk. “God damn it.”

It was a few minutes later when his phone, lying on the desk near him, buzzed and lit up for the thousandth time that day. He tilted his head just far enough to read the screen. It was Natasha. He sighed again and pulled his hand out from under the desk to hit the ignore button. Why he hadn't turned his phone off yet, even he didn't know.

He sat upright, tapped his computer monitor to wake it up, and scanned Clint's hacked medical records for the fourth time. The archer was fine; he hadn't even been kept overnight for observation. Well, he should have been, but he was an Avenger, and none of them were good patients. Clint had been discharged with a concussion, extensive bruising, and contusions. Nothing truly serious – enough for a round of unconsciousness and a hospital visit, but as a non-enhanced Avenger? That was almost boring.

Not like what Tony had planned for himself that day. _Damn you, Clint,_ he thought. _Why did you have to get in the way?_

A silent snarl on his lips, he minimized the whole mess with a swipe of his hand. Done was done.

Wheeling his stool over to the hologram table, he called up the schematics for his armor. The updates he'd made after the Doombot cracked his ribs and broke the armor's back plating hadn't turned out so well in the long term. The interlocking plates had been a problem since the initial installation in the Mark II.

With his chin propped on a fist, he plucked out the hologram of the back plates and swept aside the rest. He flipped the hologram to frown at the electrical interface on the inside. All of the electrical work was just too large to allow the amount of movement he needed.

He started to jiggle his knee. “Jarvis?”

“Sir?”

“What time is it?”

“It is 4:14 p.m.”

Tony hummed in acknowledgement, then clapped his hands and spread them wide to expand the view on the left, scapula plate. He half-heartedly started to pick apart the electrical components.

“And what time is it now?”

“It is 4:14:53, six seconds after your last query. Are we about to begin this game again, sir? As I recall from the previous occurrences, despite your concern for the time, this exercise accomplishes very little but to waste it.”

Tony sat straighter and made a face. “Fine, fine. Whatever.”

He crossed his legs and scratched violently at his elbow then dropped his hand to the tabletop with a frustrated sigh. He was out of ideas and knew it. In reality, the entire field would probably need a revolution on the magnitude of miniaturizing the arc reactor technology in order to shrink the electrical work the way he needed, and he just didn't have anything like that in him right now. For all his genius, he likely wouldn't be the one to come up with it, anyway.

He drew a hand over his face. After another minute, he couldn't stop his mouth from saying, “What time is it?”

Jarvis sounded distinctly long-suffering when he answered, “4:17:22. Sir.”

“Great, great,” Tony murmured distractedly. He tossed aside the electrical components and pulled up the metal plates again. Maybe if he could just get them to slide more smoothly... but he couldn't shrink the amount of overlap any more than he already had or it would be too weak....

“How 'bout now, Jarvis?”

“Sir, it is currently 4:21:02.”

Tony sighed, “This is why you're my favorite, Jarvis. You never get mad at me.”

“ _Never,_ sir?”

“I totally forgive you about the whole Afghanistan Pique of 2008, Jarvis. I didn't like leaving you behind, either. None of that was exactly fun.”

“As well you shouldn't think so, sir.”

Tony frowned. “Are you _scolding_ me? Maybe it's just me projecting or something, but that sounded like your scolding voice, Jarvis, and I don't know what that's about. I really don't. Usually I have some clue, but this is from left field, and –”

“Of course not, sir,” the AI soothed, “I would never do that when Miss Potts is here to do it better.”

When Tony fidgeted again and took a breath to speak, Jarvis interjected, “It is 4:22:40.”

Tony grinned, momentarily pleased to bits with himself and his AI. “You know me so well.” He paused, struck by something. “Hey, wait! The way you phrased that – Pepper isn't here. So you are scolding me! Out with it, Jarvis. Come on, stop with the passive-aggressive, subtle hints and use actual words.”

“As you wish, sir. But I see no reason to scold you when you obsessively check the time in the half hour prior to the anniversary, if you will, of your dismissal from the team. Nor is there cause enough to scold when those teammates continue to question myself and Miss Potts as to your whereabouts and well-being while you avoid human contact and attempt to invent.”

Tony's smirk was wry. “Attempt and fail, right?”

“Largely, sir.”

“Ouch. Truth, much?”

“Perhaps it is time for greater understanding on all sides.”

Tony frowned at that. “Wait, what are you planning?”

There was an alarming pause – Jarvis didn't do that unless it was intentional – before his AI answered, “I speak only of generalities, sir. Given the situation, miscommunication seems likely, in which case greater understanding would be necessary to solve at least some of the discord.”

A few seconds passed before Jarvis added gently, “Sir, it is 4:26.”

Tony felt a tic start up in his jaw. “Thanks,” he rasped. He managed to sit still for exactly four seconds before he leapt to his feet and began to pace. His mouth twisted down in a grimace and he ran his fingers through his dark hair. Then he halted, expression hard.

Leaving his phone behind on the desk, he tore out of his workshop and up the stairs to change out of his grungy engineering clothes. Back in the garage, he then hopped into his favorite Malibu car, a white Ferrari convertible. He revved the engine before shooting out the opening garage door, down the driveway and into the street. With one hand on the wheel, he reached over to dig wrap-around shades out of the glove compartment and slide them over his face.

The highway disappeared beneath the tires of his sports car as he rocketed through the streets of Malibu toward L.A. The mechanical hum in the steering wheel shot a line of goosebumps up his arms and down his back. The Ferrari was a beautiful creature, sleek and rippling with well-defined muscle.

Tony gritted his teeth, his jaw aching under the force. His knuckles whitened around his grip on the wheel.

She could go faster than this.

With music blasting from the speakers and the wind tearing through his hair, Tony jammed his foot down on the gas. The Ferrari roared beneath him, the speedometer needle edging up. He shot through a red light, the screech of a horn searing into his ears.

Tony had all the time in the world to turn his head right and watch the oncoming truck. The sunglasses sat heavily on the bridge of his nose, uncomfortably sweaty. A strand of hair was in his right eye. He felt every raised leather braid on the steering wheel cover and knew that there were 17 stitches of thread under his right hand and 19½ under his left.

He watched the face of the woman driving the approaching semi as she tensed, her expression gradually distorting with horror. Tony only felt resigned.

With a shivering thrill of near-disappointment, he watched as the rear bumper of the Ferrari skimmed past the semi with bare inches to spare. If the two vehicles' corresponding heights had allowed it, the truck's side mirror would likely have been torn away.

Then Tony was through the intersection and the semi had blown past. For several hundred feet, Tony could only sit there and stare out the windshield in shock. Then he thrust a fist into the air and whooped.

His heart pounded and adrenaline coursed just under his skin. He floored it toward L.A., eager now to get to a casino or a bar or a strip joint – any place with old-fashioned fun.

Some time later, Tony spotted a familiar car ahead of him in traffic, pulling into the lot of his old favorite casino. He grinned, hit with inspiration. The latest lead to a movie star's scandal would definitely have a bevy of reporters in her wake. He swerved over two lanes to the blare of horns, just barely in time to take the turn into the lot.

He jerked to a tire-hissing halt in front of the valet, taking the time to artfully muss his hair in the mirror. Then he stepped out of the Ferrari, all expensive arrogance, before tossing the man his keys and sweeping past. He hit the doors with a calculated swagger, his designer shades hiding his eyes and his lips curled in a casual, photo-ready smirk.

“Hey, Brian,” he greeted to the security guard standing just inside the doors. “Miss me?” He didn't give the flustered man a chance to respond as he strode by, enjoying the way heads turned at the sound of Tony Stark's voice. It wasn't long before he, easily the wealthiest man in the room, gained a self-appointed entourage of security guards and beautiful women.

As he stood at the roulette table blowing away a minor fortune, he spotted a few not-so-discreet camera flashes out of the corner of his eye. “That didn't take long, did it, Ervin?” he muttered to the man running the table.

Ervin glanced past him at the tabloid photographers and raised his eyebrows. “Even less than usual, Mr. Stark.”

Tony's smirk widened to fang-flashing proportions. “Good.”

Tony spun on a heel and waved some of his entourage out of the way. With a clear line of sight between him and the reporters, he leaned back against the table, folding his arms and crossing his legs at the ankle. He leveled a devil's grinning leer their way, viciously pleased that the shades and goatee aided the impression. Holding the pose for a few seconds to the excited flash of cameras, he then slid sideways to snag the flute of champagne resting on the roulette table, giving them a good shot of his giant pile of chips. He drained the glass, highlighting the clean lines of his neck, then gave them another knowing smirk.

Their photos taken and his go-ahead obvious, even to the casino's security hovering nearby, the reporters rushed up to him and held out digital recorders.

“Mr. Stark!” the first woman called. “Mr. Stark, what do you have to say to the rumors about Iron Man?”

“Well,” Tony drawled, using one finger to pull down his sunglasses and give her an appreciative once-over, “that depends. What sort of rumors are we talking about?”

She gave him a small smile of passive-aggressive vitriol. “The sort of rumors that say you're off the Avengers' team.”

“Is that so?” Tony said without a twitch in his expression, sliding his sunglasses back up. “Well, then I say that for once, they're not wrong. The Avengers couldn't handle me.”

He then turned to the beautiful woman at his right, barely clothed in a skin-tight red dress, and lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. He was crooning innuendo into her ear when a male reporter asked, shoving his way closer, “Doesn't that bother you?” Someone else called out, “What happened?”

Tony pulled away from her, smirking when she pouted at him, and shrugged. “They say that great minds think alike. Too bad mine was the only one in the group. Now I'm just Iron Man, a one-man superhero squad,” he drawled, pausing to smile over at the first woman reporter, “at your service.” He lifted a hand and waggled his fingers at the man with the video camera in the back. “Say hello to Fu-fu and Captain Geezer for me, will you? They're already missing my funding, I'm sure.”

“Mr. Stark?” Ervin called from behind him. “You're holding up the table.”

Tony turned back toward him. “Oh, right. Ervin, my man, put me down for,” he paused to slide forward a few stacks of chips, “this much on... you know what? Why don't you pick this time?”

Ervin let out an almost inaudible sigh, but did as he was asked.

The roulette wheel spun, and there went Tony's money. “Too bad,” he said to a third reporter at his elbow with a smile. “But there's more where that came from.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draft number three, and at last I am satisfied.

Tony rested on the balcony lounge chair with his eyes closed, a glass of amber alcohol in hand. His legs were crossed at the ankle and his bare toes were warm in the Malibu sun. Even here from the top of the cliff, he could hear the crashing waves.

The inside of his mind was almost silent. The mansion was empty of interrupting people, barricaded by electronic glass and filled only with shafts of light. He had no missions, no reports, and no backlog of R&D for S.I.; no armor to fix, no function to attend, and no meeting to blow off. It was almost like he had a free day.

He didn't quite know what to do with that.

The bone of his ankle was digging into his other foot, so he recrossed his ankles the other way. When he took a sip of his drink, it spilled a little down his cheek. The sun was too bright even through his eyelids, so he threw the back of one wrist over the bridge of his nose. He tried several positions to make it block all the light, but it wasn't working.

Eventually he huffed and sat upright, turning sideways to rest his feet on the shaded, cool concrete. He rubbed his right temple with three fingertips and cracked his tense jaw.

A blissfully silent house all to himself had become an empty, dead monolith in the space of minutes. He should be doing something. He hadn't been productive at all that morning, and without that, what good was he?

Tony stood up, still holding his half-empty glass. He went to the edge of the balcony, pressing himself up against the half-wall of concrete and staring down the sheer drop into the ocean. The white froth of waves rolled up and broke against caramel-brown cliffs. The ocean spread out at his feet, miles upon miles of it, blurring out at the slightly curved edge of the world. It was a beautiful view.

He had never hated it more.

Tony tossed back the contents of his glass, grimaced at the burn, and then stared at the empty cup. He held it out over the edge and thought about watching it fall. It would tumble end over end, its cut crystal flashing sunlight in Morse code. When t=√(2d/g) and if Point Dume's summit of 56 meters was the approximate height of his balcony, and since acceleration due to gravity was 9.8 meters per second squared, then the glass would take 3.4 seconds to hit the water.

But knowing the numbers didn't tell him how he would feel to watch it disappear into the distance below and never hear the splash.

And so he let go. He opened his fingers and watched it fall past the edge of the balcony, accelerating faster and faster out of sight. It must have hit the water and been swallowed up, but he lost sight of it before it did. The faint crash of the waves drifted up to him unchanged. And Tony felt nothing. All that had happened was that he lost a glass.

He sighed and turned away to head back inside. He was just stepping through the door when two feet landed lightly behind him and a hand clamped over his mouth, the other yanking his arm behind his back. A body with decidedly female curves tugged him close to tighten the hold and jerk his arm painfully high. Tony flinched, then froze when a familiar, silky voice made a threat out of his name.

“Stark,” came the deadly purr at his ear.

Fear flashed to rage so quickly his vision went white. He jerked his head, dislodging the hand enough to grit out, “Natasha. Let go of me.”

“You've been ignoring my calls. _Our_ calls.”

“Either you let go of me willingly, or I'll call my armor and break your wrist.”

She inhaled sharply at that, but there must have been something in his voice because after a moment her arms slithered away and she stepped back. He whirled to face her. She wore her black cat suit, but no obvious weapons. If she had intended that as some sort of conciliatory gesture, she'd failed miserably.

“What are you doing here?” Tony spat.

“I'm here to talk. It seemed I had no other option to get you to face me.” She leaned toward him a little in earnestness. It was up in the air whether she was honestly earnest or not, but Tony didn’t put it past her to manipulate him with her body language.

He narrowed his eyes. “Good plan. That's an excellent way to get on my good side.” He spun on a heel and stalked into the house, heading for the bar and a new glass. He drained two cupfuls before he looked at her again. She was lounging on the couch near the door, one leg crossed over the other, looking strangely at ease even though she should have been wildly out of place – a black-clad ninja assassin in a contemporary living room done in off-whites and creams. She should have looked wrong sitting there. That she didn't made anger boil in his gut.

Natasha broke the silence. “I saw the statements you gave the press. It was an impressive display of wealth and apparent indifference.”

“Jarvis?” Tony snapped without breaking eye contact with her.

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell me, what is the number of Romanov's bank account?”

Natasha didn't tense up, but an air of readiness gathered about her. It made Tony viciously happy. “Stark,” she snapped out, then collected herself. “Tony. You don't need to do that.”

“Don't I? A SHIELD assassin trespassed on my private property and assaulted me.”

Natasha spread her hands out with her palms up and open, apparently weaponless. “I'm not looking for a fight, Tony. The only reason I didn't just walk up to the gate and ring the buzzer is because I knew you wouldn't answer.”

“There's a reason for that.”

“I'm aware. That's why I'm here.”

With a clank, Tony dropped the hand holding the glass onto the granite countertop. “Really?” he asked with a cynical little laugh. “So you drop in, attack me, then say you came to 'talk' precisely because you knew I didn't want to? No, no, that makes sense. That's dissertation-level logic right there.”

He made a show of peering around the living room. “So where are the others? I assume they all showed up in some misguided attempt at an olive branch. Or whatever it is you think you're doing.” He poured more alcohol into his glass, some of his strongest stuff.

“It's just me.”

“Uh-huh. I heard how you gave that line to Banner. Surrounded the cottage with gunmen, didn't you?”

“That was different. I was bringing in a volatile asset to SHIELD. You're a friend.”

“Sure.” He tossed back some of the whiskey, relishing the burn in his throat.

She shifted in her seat, angling her upper body and arranging her arms to almost mirror his. It was likely both deliberate and calculated to make him unconsciously more at ease. Her voice was gentle when she said, “Tony, I don't know what made you think you have to be a member of the Avengers to be my friend, but it's not true. If someone told you that, they were lying.”

He huffed a disbelieving laugh. “No one had to tell me. Even Tony 'Doesn't-Play-Well-with-Others' Stark can take a hint that big.”

She twitched her expression, making a show of exasperation just clear enough to catch before it passed. “You're wrong, Tony. Being friends isn't dependent on being teammates. They're unrelated issues.”

“Now, you see,” Tony drawled, gesturing, “I've had plenty of girlfriends tell me that right before they broke up with me. So you can understand why I might not believe the professional liar when she says the same thing.”

Natasha stiffened. “Stop it, Tony.”

He went on as though he hadn’t heard. “I mean, what else could I think?” He took another swallow of whiskey. “I did just mention the whole 'professional liar' thing, right? I'd ask Jarvis, but I already know you pass lie detector tests with flying colors saying the sky is orange.”

“Is that right?” she asked with a neutrality so flat it was deadly. She slipped smoothly off the sofa and stood, gliding across the room. He tensed and held his ground. But he was glad nonetheless that she stopped on the other side of the bar.

After a long, tense scrutiny, she finally folded her arms and sighed, “Tony. Please tell me you realize how stupid you're being.”

He blinked at her, thrown for a loop. “What?” From the cat-like, sinuous way she'd approached, he had almost expected to see his own blood spattered on the wall.

“You heard me. I won't repeat myself.” She sighed again, looking irritated. “You're so oblivious, it's sad. Talk to me, Tony. How can I help fix this?”

“What the hell? You think it's that easy? Just wave your magic wand and _fix_ it? Reality check, Romanov. Nothing works like that.”

She bristled, murmuring, “I think you know, Tony, that I of all people realize that fact, and better than you do.”

“No, I actually don't think that's true at all.” Tony sneered. “Red in your ledger? You want to wipe it out? Well, guess what? You _can't_. That shit can't be erased, and it will be there forever.” He rapped his knuckles against the arc reactor with an ugly expression. “No take-backs.”

“Aren't there?” She studied his face. “Clint doesn't blame you, you know.”

Tony flinched. “Get out.”

She folded her arms and settled into her stance so deeply she might as well have grown roots. “No.”

He drew himself up to his full height. “You think you can take Iron Man?”

A small smirk twitched at her lips. “I know I can take Tony Stark.”

“Jarvis! Activate the armor.”

“Sir,” the A.I. said gently, “I'm afraid that order is ill-advised, and clashes with my primary directive. I will care for your welfare, even beyond the point at which you would wish otherwise.”

Tony froze, feeling something deep within his chest crack open. “Really,” he stated.

His face must have given everything away. For the first time since arriving, Natasha showed true worry. “Tony, wait! Before you jump to conclusions, let me say this: Jarvis is the one who suggested I come to talk to you. He realized that this was all just a misunderstanding and thought that if we could just discuss it, we'd be able to mend it. Tony – Tony, please, just wait. Let Jarvis and me help you.”

Within him, a softening affection trembled on a set of scales opposite betrayal. Pain rippled out under his skin, a pulsing, wavering throb that couldn’t choose between heat or cold. He shook his head in bewilderment and took a step back. Goosebumps broke out on his arms, and sweat gathered on his palm, making his grip on the glass weak. The tension within him was unbearable. And so ice sealed shut his heart, leaving him numb.

Natasha read something of it in his expression, and her own softened. She circled the bar to stand in front of him, then made an aborted movement as though she had thought to hug him. “It doesn't have to be this way,” she said quietly and a little desperately. “You can come back to New York with me. Now. Tonight. We'll all talk to Steve and Fury. We'll sort this out. All you have to do... is trust me.” She held out a hand for him to take.

Tony stared at it and the moment stretched out. A thousand memories popped up in perfect, objective clarity, file after file flashing past: laughter with his team, the banter as they take out the baddie-of-the-week, the team meals, that extra smile when he hobbled in for movie night, and a bloom of heat in his chest when he woke up from a pain-laced doze and saw that someone had left breakfast for him.

Then he weighed the counterbalance: expressions of annoyance; constant scolding for doing his job; wafts of disapproval and disappointment for his passionate, sometimes exclusive focus on engineering; and worst of all, the collision into those moments when soft concern shifted back into hatred and bare tolerance.

Analytically, he thought about starting over and doing it all again. He thought about trying to rebuild what he once believed was solid and dependable but was not. Then he knew at last: the physical pain wasn't worth the uncertain profit.

Tony turned away from the outstretched hand. He plastered on his playboy arrogance and his media facade of perfect composure. “Whatever, Romanov. I've played this game for decades and I know how it works.” When he looked up at her, his expression was wry with cynical amusement. “You don't have to pretend to like me anymore to get me to do what you want. What was it you really came here for? Maybe Fury ordered you to negotiate a new contract. You do still dance on his strings, don't you?” He waved a hand. “Just tell me what you came here to say and then get out.”

Natasha forced her face into neutrality, dropping her hand to her side. She steeled her spine. “Fine. Stay here and brood, then.” She turned away, pausing only to say over her shoulder, “If you didn't catch it already, I just came here to say that we all miss you.” And she strode out onto the balcony and unfolded a grappling hook from somewhere. She climbed out of sight and vanished.

When Tony finally set down his half-full glass, he realized his hands were trembling.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …'banished'?  
> O friar, the damned use that word in hell;  
> Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart,  
> Being…  
> …my friend profess'd,  
> To mangle me with that word 'banished'?  
> -Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene III

In the suit, he flew out over the Pacific and twisted, rolling through the air in a lazy corkscrew. He had no reason to be doing this. There was nothing to patrol out here, but he told himself he didn’t care he was drifting pointlessly. After all, what was the purpose to his genius? What was a bow without an arrow? What was passion without direction, other than a ravening monster that would consume him from the inside out? The nonfulfillment of his burning passion would devour him like a cancer, and soon there would be nothing left. ‘Twas a consummation — a consumption — devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep — to sleep, perchance to dream….

He grimaced to himself. Then he pulled out of his slow roll and flipped 90 degrees, planting his feet beneath him, and blasting upward into the clouds. Above him, the clouds were a thick fog, billowing glacially outward and upward in a slow tumble through the atmosphere. He hit the bottom surface of one and was instantly swallowed up. Water vapour condensed on his visor, streaming off his upturned face in strings. His jet boots faded to a hovering stop, and he stood in the endless white. The clouds swirled beneath his feet from the power of his repulsors, curling around and away like scent-less incense. 

He muted Jarvis and shut down the HUD except for the most crucial readouts. His armor was the only source of sound, and if he could have cut the power and stayed airborne, he would have. It was empty out there, and full at the same time. Just like him. The air was saturated with water vapour, heavy and wet and cold, but there was nothing to see. In the cloud all that was, was white, just a nondescript canvas on which nothing could ever be painted. 

A heavy sigh left him, and his shoulders eased out of a tension held so long that relaxation hurt. His hand stabilizers wavered, and he wobbled in the air before catching himself. He could never relax completely. Too much depended on him. His signature decided the fate of entire factory towns, and his alter ego stood between nameless innocents and supervillains. They needed him to stand in front of disaster. His hands wielded the power to wreak catastrophe or hold it back, but it was nothing that he wanted now. 

He needed this manifestation of nothingness to reflect his insides, a nothingness of solitude and silence in which his pain was all but invisible to him. It was buried deep in his chest—not deep like three inches behind his sternum, four, five and out the other side, but deep like the zoom lens of a camera, from the level of the naked eye down to positrons and quarks—a point of singularity at which he could stuff oceans of pain into the huge, empty, quantum spaces of the in-between. And so he hovered here, in this in-between of earth and sky that was blissfully blank. 

He never wanted to leave this place. 

\-----

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, slumping into the couch cushions and propping his elbow on the arm to cradle his throbbing head with his fingertips. 

“Sir?” Jarvis inquired hesitantly. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

He was too tired and too numb. “Why should I?”

Jarvis’s silence said everything.

In the quiet, the brunette newscaster on the TV continued her eager commentary. She gestured to the side, ducking instinctually as an explosion went off nearby. “As you can see behind me,” she bellowed over the thunder and roaring of fire in the background, “the Avengers are doing their best to fight off this horde of giant insects, but they seem to be having some difficulty. After the confirmation two weeks ago from Tony Stark himself, it’s clear that Iron Man will not make an appearance here in New York City today. However, the Aven—”

A giant piece of rubble went flying down the street behind the anchorwoman, and she stopped short at the crash, surprise on her face. Behind her, the hunk of concrete crushed a ten-foot-tall house fly that had just landed on the Greek facade of a bank. The camera swiveled to the right, focusing on the Hulk planted on top of a collapsed building, his fists clenched and his teeth bared in a roar. 

Thor, who had been perched on the bank’s lightning rod, gave a cry as the building shuddered, the words indistinguishable over the distance. The camera panned back out to capture Thor as he flew over to the Hulk, landing near him. The Asgardian gestured angrily, and the Hulk roared in his face. Thor brandished Mjolnir and almost got himself punched. 

As they argued, a huge spider scuttled up the pile of rubble behind the Hulk and latched onto his back. He bellowed in surprise and spun, scraping at his back with first one hand and then the other. Thor stumbled backward out of the path of rampage, but made no move to help. He just watched, hammer in hand. Finally, the Hulk seemed to figure out he couldn’t reach the creature and instead he leapt straight up, tilting backward in mid-air so that he hit the ground spider-first. The spider’s exoskeleton split with a sickening crunch, and fluid gushed out. The spider’s legs, on either side of the Hulk’s green body, quivered and twitched before going still.

The camera refocused on the newscaster. She looked green and made an emphatic slicing gesture across her throat with her hand held flat. Then she staggered out of frame. The news station hurriedly cut to the studio, and the suprised anchorwoman there had to take a moment to clear her throat and wait for some hastily conjured cue cards. She then said, “And that was Gabrielle Herscheth on the scene in New York City. Thank you, Gabrielle. As you just saw, while the Avengers are fighting hard, their teamwork has taken a hit. For many old fans, Iron Man’s absence has obviously left a large, divisive hole in the group. And they’re not the only ones to take notice. Over the past weeks, supervillain attacks on New York have measurably increased, while rates of violence on the West Coast have dropped only slightly.

“Tony Stark has refused further comment ever since his fateful statement in Malibu. His claim that the Avengers would feel the impact of his removal of funding has been hotly debated, especially in the light of no changes in Avengers Tower, a building owned by Stark Industries. Furthermore, discussion has raged over future plans for the Avengers, and their fate as a team. Cvilian casualty rates have risen, as have team injuries. Collateral damage is skyrocketing. We seem to be heading toward a breaking point.

“The devastastion you saw in New York today may be just a taste of what’s to come if the Avengers fail altogether.” She paused and the camera cut to a low-quality Internet video. It had clearly been shot from a cell phone, and the person holding it fumbled a little before facing it toward himself. He was a teen, wearing a baseball cap backwards that kept his curls only partially tamed. The newcaster explained over the first several seconds of fumbled static, “This video of a New York native, posted earlier this morning, has already gone viral online. He has a request to make.”

“Iron Man,” the teen said, glancing nervously around him at the sound of a building collapsing in the distance, “me and my friends want you to come back. New York needs you, man. The Avengers just ain’t the same without you.” 

Tony flinched and ordered, “TV: mute.” Then he looked away and rubbed a hand over his tense mouth. Jarvis seemed to be waiting for a response. “It wouldn’t even matter,” Tony muttered finally. “By the time I arrived, the fight would be long over.”

He shuffled over on the couch to lie down, drawing a pillow from behind him to tuck beneath his head. He then dragged a blanket off the back and threw it over himself, burying his head underneath it. 

Jarvis said, “They have been in battle for over three hours already, sir.”

“And your point is?” Tony asked, his voice muffled as he spoke into the pillow. “It would take me at least that many more to get there.”

“Both Mr. Barton and Ms. Romanoff were sidelined due to injuries before this battle began.”

“Contrary to what everyone seems to think, I don’t owe any of them a damn thing.”

“Sir—”

“Jarvis.” His tone was final. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Neither of them spoke after that for nearly an hour.

\-----

“Rhodey!” Tony greeted expansively, throwing his arms wide. “Golden Grahams, where’ve you been? You haven’t come to say hello to your good buddy in forever.”

Despite his apparent exhaustion, Rhodey broke out in a helpless smile. His duffel bag was slung over a shoulder with one hand and his back bent under the weight. His dress blues were a little dusty and a little more worn than the last time they saw each other, but Tony thought he’d never looked better. 

“Hey, Tony.”

“Cream puff, stop collecting dust on the porch and get in here.” Tony waved him past into the entryway and shut the door behind him. “No, no, just leave the boots on. That’s what the cleaning staff is for. And toss your bag over there. Come on, hurry up.”

“What’s the rush?” he asked, absently setting down his bag with his eyes on Tony. 

Tony waved the question aside. “I just haven’t seen you in ages, that’s all. We have to celebrate!”

Rhodey followed him into the first floor living room and managed a controlled slide onto the curved, white couch. “I’m really not in the mood for one of your parties, Tony.”

“Come on, I’ll order pizza and we’ll drink. It’ll be fun.” He waved his cell phone at him, then started bringing up the appropriate contact.

The other man raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? There’s a party at Tony Stark’s place and the entire town isn’t invited?”

“It’s just you and me right now, friend.” He shrugged. “Are you really going to turn down pizza? Philistine! How could you?” Without waiting for an answer, he hit send and put the phone to his ear. 

Order placed, Tony then plopped onto the couch on Rhodey’s left, turning sideways to face him. He threw his arm over the back and pulled his right leg up onto the cushion, the other foot still resting on the floor. “So,” he said with a grin, “what have you been up to lately?”

“You know I can’t tell you that, Tony. It’s classified.”

He pouted. “So? I want to know all about your adventures. Come on.” He poked him in the shoulder. “Tell me.”

“What, are you twelve?” Rhodey muttered. “No.” He turned to more fully face Tony. “More importantly, let’s talk about you. I heard about what happened with the Avengers.”

Tony’s animated expression folded up and blanked out. “Good for you. But I have a counter-proposal. Let’s not.” He drew his arm off the back of the couch and leaned away, shifting outward and less toward his friend. He only just managed not to cross his arms. His tells were already clear enough.

Rhodey sighed. He looked too exhausted to be irritated. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Tony peered at him from the corner of his eye. “Was that why you came here? To ask about the Avengers? Because you changed the subject pretty quickly there.” He paused, then turned his head to peer at the other man’s stoic profile. “Rather defensively, I might add. And I know what I’m talking about when I mention defense systems.”

“I’m sure you do,” came the noncommittal response.

He narrowed his eyes. “All right, let me ask you something else. Why was whatever you were doing marked as classified?”

“You know I can’t tell you that, either, Tony.”

“Fine, fine. Let’s just stop all this prying and have some fun, okay?” He rose to his feet and crossed the living room to the bar, then threw together two drinks with the casual ease of practice. When he turned back, he sucked in a breath. Rhodey was sitting in the exact same spot as Natasha had when she confronted him last week. He shook his head to clear the superimposed memory. Then he drifted back to Rhodey and handed down one of the glasses. 

The other man took it with a weary smile and toasted him before knocking back a good half of it. Tony blinked in surprise. Then he plopped down beside Rhodey, his drink sloshing. He sat close enough that shoulder pressed comfortably to shoulder and knee to knee, which meant the rest of the vast sofa stretched out to his left, empty and cold. But Rhodey’s side was warm and forgivingly soft.

When Tony landed beside him, Rhodey glanced over with the corners of his eyes crinkled up in a tired smile. The only movements either of them made for several minutes were to gradually finish off their drinks, before letting the glasses dangle from lax, curled fingers. The two soaked in the peaceful quiet. In front of them and to the right, the white fireplace crackled with a gas fire, its yellow light flickering and gentle. Beyond, the semi-circular cascade of water from the ten-foot-tall fountain added a soft trickle to the near-silence. 

Tony heaved a great sigh and settled deeper against Rhodey’s side. Rhodey, too, seemed to melt a little into the couch and Tony’s company.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! Just a short, unbeta-read one, to get the ball rolling after so long away.
> 
> Tony reaches his lowest point. Hurt, no comfort and some cursing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOUR years since the last post. Wow. A lot has happened, what with college and then grad school (for creative writing). My extended confidence crisis about my writing is passing... I think. As long as I can continue to find my courage, just like Tony. The broad horizon of careers, publishing and the so-called "real world" is intimidating, people. 
> 
> AND SO A MASSIVE, GALAXY-WIDE THANK YOU to everyone who has left encouragement, kudos and comments. I've seen them all, and it's because of you guys that I never gave up hope on finishing this fic. It may have been a long time, but I am very stubborn and I am back.

“Alone. Yes, that’s the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn’t hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.”  
\- Stephen King

 

He could get out of bed if he wanted. He was a billionaire and a genius; he could do anything if he wanted.

He just… didn’t want.

The thought seemed to end there. The holographic wall of his bedroom stood in front of him, rolling with HD ocean waves to a recorded surf. Everything else in the room was white, and the light hurt his eyes. So he closed them, swallowed against the nausea of a hangover, and tugged the blanket to his chin.

_Liability_. So many people in his life had used that word to describe Tony Stark. Reckless narcissist. Merchant of Death. War profiteer. Drunkard. Egotistical bastard. You name it, someone has said it. Tony Stark: not recommended.

There were many things he should get up and do. He had a Fortune 500 company to run, or at least invent for. And inventing was fun, right? But even that had become tainted by the taste of Iron Man and the Avengers.

He didn’t know where to turn from here. After Afghanistan, he’d had purpose. Intent. Direction. Now, he seemed to have tied more of himself into the Avengers than he realized and didn’t know how to untangle: Stark Tower, bastion of green energy and the power of human ingenuity, not to mention his New York home, transformed into Avengers Tower; SHIELD, with over forty percent of his newest R&D contracts; the news, overflowing about the team.

And he’d invited them into his heart. The heart he didn’t have—the one he couldn’t have, or the loneliness would crush him.

Well, he was being crushed. He needed to get out of bed, but there was no point. Why bother? There was nothing to turn the hurt toward, nowhere for it to go to be transformed. Nothing he could create had ever erased the loneliness he’d felt since he was small, the loneliness he hadn’t known was gone until it roared back up within him, a leviathan of pain.

Words made it sound melodramatic. It just felt like a weight. An emptiness. A pointlessness.

Like an empty beach. A Christmas tree without gifts. A mansion for one, howling with stillness. A glimpse into the airless, choking silence of outer space and a violent beauty no one else had ever known or could understand.

Like an invention that would never be seen and instead corroded in the corner, waiting and waiting for acknowledgment with accusation.

He was so stupid. How had he ever been naive enough to believe in the Avengers? In turning co-workers into a family? He knew better than that. No one he paid or worked with could be family. Life just didn’t work that way, and he’d been an idiot to think so. He was a goddamned fool and a failure.

The terrible part was how desperately he wanted a drink and how little energy he had to get one. Hangover symptoms lost meaning if he just kept drinking. He’d only need to walk across the room to start the day off sloshed, but he couldn’t bear the heft of Jarvis’s cameras watching him. Not today, not again.

He was such an asshole. Fury and Steve were right: there was no reason to recommend Tony Stark. Take the suit off and what are you? The hunk of metal he made held much more value than he himself did. Dad thought so. The Afghan kidnappers agreed. Obie added his vote on the golden goose. The Board of Directors. Pepper when she broke up with him. The Avengers. The media who crucified him for everything he did and didn’t do.

If Captain America thought he was shit, he had no right to argue.

So there were things Tony could get up and do, sure. Even things he should do. But no reason to do them, and no reason in his soul to believe he could. _Liability._

Liability.

He didn’t want anything. Or maybe he didn’t dare to.

And if that was true, he could add the failure of cowardice to his incriminating list. He could get up. He was just too lazy and too much of a chicken shit to try.


End file.
